B    M    1DD 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 


NEW  BORZOI  POETRY 

BODY  AND  RAIMENT 
PROFILES  FROM  CHINA 
By    Eunice    Tietjens 

170  CHINESE  POEMS 
MORE  TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
THE  CHINESE 

By  Arthur  Waley 

POEMS:    FIRST  SERIES 
By  J.  C.  Squire 

THE  BELOVED  STRANGER 
By  Witter  Bynner 


A   WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

BY 

MARJORIE  ALLEN  SEIFFERT 

AND 

POEMS  OF  ELIJAH  HAY 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  -  A  •  KNOPF 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    Or    AMERICA 


p 


TO 

O.  H.  S. 


458928 


CONTENTS 


I.    THE  OLD  WOMAN 

A  Morality  Play,  3 

II.    LOVE  POEMS  IN  SUMMER 

Singalese  Love  Songs  I-V,  n 

The  Silent  Pool,  15 

Nocturne,  16 

Theme  Arranged  for  Organ  I-III,  17 

The  Moonlight  Sonata,  19 

Possession,  20 

Evening:  the  Taj  Mahal,  21 

The  Gift,  23 

The  Bridge,  24 

A  Temple  I-VII,  25 

Candles,  30 

Winter  Night,  31 

Last  Days  I-V,  32 

Sorrow,  35 

Prison,  36 

The  Dream  House,  37 


III.    STUDIES  AND  DESIGNS 

Design  for  a  Japanese  Vase,  41 

The  Bow  Moon   (A  Print  by  Hiroshige),  42 

An  Italian  Chest,  44 

The  Pedlar,  46 

Portrait  of  a  Lady  in  Bed  I-V,  48 

Portrait  of  a  Gentleman,  53 

From  the  Madison  Street  Police  Station,  54 

La  Felice,  55 

The  Journey,  57 

The  Last  Illusion,  58 

The  Desert,  59 

The  Picnic,  61 


IV.     INTERLUDE 


Mountain  Trails  I-VII,  67 

October  Morning,  70 

October  Afternoon,  71 

Maternity,  72 

The  Father  Speaks,  73 

To  Allen,  74 

To  Helen,  75 

The  Immortal,  76 

To  an  Absent  Child  I-IV,  78 

Summer  Night,  80 

Maura  I- VI,   81 

November  Dusk,  85 

Winter  Valley  I-IV,  86 


V.     LOVE  POEMS  IN  AUTUMN 

Ballad,  91 

The  Pathway  of  Black  Leaves  I-IV,  92 

Elegy,  95 

Sequence  I-X,  96 

Disillusion,  103 

November  Afternoon,  104 

Yareth  at  Solomon's  Tomb,  105 

Argolis,  106 

St.  Faith's  Eve,  107 


POEMS  OF  ELIJAH  HAY 

The  Golden  Stag,  in 

To  Anne  Knish,  112 

Lolita,  114 

Spectrum  of  Mrs.  Q.,  115 

Epitaph,  116 

A  Sixpence,  117 

Three  Spectra,  118 

Two  Commentaries,  119 

A  Womanly  Woman,  120 

Lolita  Now  Is  Old,  121 

The  Shining  Bird,  123 

The  King  Sends  Three  Cats  to  Guinevere,  124 

Ode  in  the  New  Mode,  126 

Night,  127 


I.    The  Old  Woman 

(A  Morality  Play) 


The  Old  Woman 

(A  Morality  Play) 

Characters : 

The  Woman 
The  House 
The  Doctor 
The  Deacon 
The  Landlady 

Doctor:  There  is  an  old  woman 

Who  ought  to  die  — 

Deacon :  And  nobody  knows 

But  what  she's  dead  — 

Doctor :  The  air  will  be  cleaner 

When  she's  gone  — 

Deacon:  But  we  dare  not  bury  her 

Till  she's  dead  — 

Landlady:        Come,  young  doctor 

From  the  first  floor  front, 
Come,  dusty  deacon, 


From  the  fourth  floor  back, 

You  take  her  heels 

And  I'll  take  her  head  — 


Doctor  and 
Deacon: 


We'll  carry  her 
And  bury  her 
If  she's  dead! 


House:  They  roll  her  up 

In  her  old,  red  quilt, 
They  carry  her  down 
At  a  horizontal  tilt, 
She  doesn't  say  "  Yes  " 
And  she  doesn't  say  "  No," 
She  doesn't  say,  "  Gentlemen, 
Where  do  we  go?  " 

Doctor:  Out  in  the  lot 

Where  ash-cans  die, 
There,  old  woman, 
There  shall  you  lie ! 


Deacon:  Let's  hurry  away 

And  never  look  behind 
To  see  if  her  eyes 
Are  dead  and  blind, 
To  see  if  the  quilt 
Lies  over  her  face  — 
Perhaps  she'll  groan 
Or  move  in  her  place ! 


House:  The  room  is  empty 

Where  the  old  woman  lay, 
And  I  no  longer 
Smell  like  a  tomb  — 

Landlady:        Doctor,  deacon, 
Can  you  say 
Who'll  pay  rent 
For  the  old  woman's  room? 


House :  The  room  is  empty 

Down  the  hall, 
There  are  mice  in  the  closet, 
Ghosts  in  the  wall  — 
A  pretty  little  lady 
Comes  to  see  — 

Woman:  Oh,  what  a  dark  room, 

Not  for  me ! 

Landlady:        The  room  is  large 
And  the  rent  is  low, 
There's  a  deacon  above 
And  a  doctor  below  — 

Deacon :  When  the  little  mice  squeak 

I  shall  pray  — 

Doctor:  I'll  psycho-analyse 

The  ghosts  away  — 


Landlady:        The  bed  is  large 

And  the  mattress  deep, 
Wrapped  in  a  feather-bed 
You  shall  sleep  — 

Woman:  But  here's  the  door 

Without  a  key  I 
An  unlocked  room 
Won't  do  for  me ! 

Doctor :  Here's  a  bolt  — 

Deacon:  And  here's  a  bar  — 

Landlady:        You'll  sleep  soundly 
Where  you  are ! 

Woman:  Good  night,  gentlemen, 

It's  growing  late, 
Good  night,  landlady, 
Pray  don't  wait ! 
I'm  going  to  bed, 
I'll  bolt  the  door 
And  sleep  more  soundly 
Than  ever  before! 

Deacon:  Good  night,  madam, 

I'll  steal  away  — 

Doctor:  Glad  a  pretty  lady 

Has  come  to  stay ! 


House :  She  lights  a  candle  — 

What  do  I  see ! 
That  cloak  looks  like 
A  quilt  to  me ! 
She  climbs  into  bed 
Where  long  she's  lain, 
She's  come   back  home, 
She  won't  leave  again. 
She's  found  once  more 
Her  rightful  place, 
Same  old  lady 
With  a  pretty  new  face. 
Let  the  deacon  pray 
And  the  doctor  talk, 
The  mice  will  squeak 
And  the  ghosts  will  walk. 
There's  a  crafty  smile 
On  the  landlady's  face, 
The  old  woman's  gone, 
But  she's  filled  her  place ! 

Landlady:        It's  nothing  to  me 

If  the  old  woman's  dead, 
There's  somebody  sleeping 
In  every  bed! 


II.     Love  Poems  in  Summer 


Singalese  Love  Songs 
I 

Your  eyes  are  beautiful  beggars, 

Careless  singing  minstrels, 

Who  will  not  starve 

Nor  sleep  cold  under  the  sky 

If  they  receive  no  largess 

Of  mine. 

Once  lived  a  woman 
Of  great  charity  — 

At  last 

Her  own  children 

Begged  for  bread. 


II 

I  would  make  you  love  me 
That  you  might  possess 
Desire  — 

For  to  your  heart 
Beauty  is  a  burned-out  torch, 
ii 


And  Faith,  a  blind  pigeon, 
Friendship,  a  curious  Persian  myth, 
And  Love,  blank  emptiness, 
Bearing  no  significance 
Nor  any  reality. 

Only  Weariness  is  yours : 
I  would  make  you  love  me 
That  you  might  possess 
Desire. 


Ill 

Is  my  love 

Of  flesh  or  spirit? 

I  only  know  to  me 

Your  eyes  are  wholly  you. 

Our  glances  dart 

Like  the  flash  of  a  bird 

Gone,  before  the  colour  of  his  wing 

Is  seen. 

I  have  not  bathed  my  soul 

In  your  eyes, 

My  soul  would  drown. 


12 


IV 

I  have  starved  to  know  your  lips 

Yet  my  soul 

Does  not  die  of  want. 

For  only  dreams  are  real, 
And  fulfilment  is  an  illusion. 
There  is  but  one  fulfilment, 
Blind  Nature's  way  — 

My  arms  reach  toward  illusion, 
And  I  would  carry  mist  against  my  heart, 
Not  the  warm,  heavy  head 
Of  a  sleeping  child. 

Starving,  I  hold  my  dream. 


V 

What  do  you  seek, 
Beloved? 

When  you  have  had 

All  of  me 

There  will  remain  for  you 

One  beautiful  desire  the  less. 

You  think  you  seek  my  love 
But  you  seek 
My  denial. 


Hunger,  W'ant, 

Is  the  only  pain 

I  would  not  spare  you  — 

Alas,  that  too 

Will  die ! 


The  Silent  Pool 

Your  smile  is  a  heron,  flying 

Over  waters  cool, 

My  thoughts  of  you  are  blue  Iris! 

Today  is  the  silent  pool 

Which  shining  heron  and  Iris  blue 

Are  mirrored  on. 

Tomorrow 

Will  still  reflect  the  Iris  — 
My  thoughts  of  you; 
But  the  heron  will  be  gone. 


Nocturne 

It  is  enough 
To  feel  your  beauty 
With  the  fingers 
Of  my  heart, 

Your  beauty,  like  the  starlight, 
Filling  night  so  gently,  that  it  dreams 
Unwakened. 

I  should  feel  your  beauty  against  my  face 
Though  I  were  blind. 


16 


Theme  Arranged  for  Organ 

I.     PRELUDE 

What  would  you  have  of  me,  my  friend,  in  truth, 
A  breath  of  understanding,  or  a  glance 
Into  your  soul's  dark  places?     Can  a  word 
Aid  in  your  brave  attempt  to  smother  youth? 
Of  what  avail  that  trifling  circumstance, 
In  such  a  tumult  could  my  voice  be  heard? 

Before  your  bitter  need  my  lips  are  dumb 
So  little  can  I  give  you.     Should  I  come 
To  feed  a  starving  Titan  with  a  crumb? 


II.     INTERLUDE 

Alas,  I  am  too  foolish  or  too  wise, 

Too  soon  am  blinded  or  I  see  too  far! 

How  can  I  follow  with  expectant  feet, 

What  is  the  beacon  light  that  holds  your  eyes, 

Can  this  blind  alley  lead  to  any  star 

And  through  this  dark  confusion,  what  retreat? 

For  heaven  is  awed  when  comets  crash  to  earth, 
But  we,  who  grope  and  question  our  soul's  worth, 
Stumbling,  awaken  only  bitter  mirth. 


III.       POSTLUDE 

A  breath,  a  glance,  a  word, —  no  more,  my  friend, 
This  is  the  sum  of  what  I  have  to  give 
Leaving  the  tale  for  ever  incomplete. 
No  perfect  moment,  and  no  tragic  end, 
Within  your  heart  those  images  shall  live 
And  die  like  footsteps  down  an  empty  street. 

Yet  all  the  while  a  stifled  instinct  saith: 

"  Spend  your  soul's  vigour  to  the  utmost  breath 

And  let  the  hounds  come  baying  at  the  death!  " 


18 


o 

The  Moonlight  Sonata 

My  soul  storm-beaten  as  an  ancient  pier 
Stands  forth  into  the  sea;  wave  on  slow  wave 
Of  shining  music,  luminous  and  grave, 
Lifting  against  me,  pouring  through  me,  here 
Find  wafts  of  unforgotten  chords,  which  rise 
And  droop  like  clinging  sea-weed.     You,  so  white, 
So  still,  so  helpless  on  this  fathomless  night 
Float  like  a  corpse  with  living,  tortured  eyes. 
Deep  waves  wash  you  against  me;  you  impart 
No  comfort  to  my  spirit,  give  no  sign 
Your  inarticulate  lips  can  taste  the  brine 
Drowning  the  secret  timbers  of  my  heart. 


Possession 

I  hold  you  fast,  your  hurrying  breath, 
Your  wandering  feet,  your  restless  heart, 
Are  mine  alone,  for  only  death 
You  vowed  today,  can  make  us  part. 

Your  eager  lips,  athirst  to  drain 
Life's  goblet  of  its  golden  wine 
Shall  drink  tonight  or  thirst  in  vain  — 
I  hold  you  fast  for  you  are  mine. 

And  when  I  search  your  soul  until 
I  see  too  deeply  and  divine 
That  you  can  never  love  me  —  Still 
I  hold  you  fast  for  you  are  mine! 


20 


Evening:  the  Taj  Mahal 

(A  Lover  Speaks) 
Beloved!  .  .  . 

India  and  you 

Breathe  through  my  soul  tonight, 

You  in  your  gown,  impossibly  white  — 

I  marvel  greatly  that  it  fail 

To  glow  and  pale 

With  iridescent  light  — 

How  can  it  hang  in  silent  nun-like  folds? 

Think  of  the  flaming  mystery  it  holds, 

You  ...     You  ... 

We  stand  in  that  wide  place 

Where  love  is  frozen  in  marble,  spire  on  spire, 

A  snow-white  nightingale  with  a  heart  of  fire 

Soaring  in  space. 

We  gaze,  together,  into  the  shining  pool 

To  catch  the  soul  of  beauty  unaware 

Finding  only  the  peaceful  body  there 

Of  beauty  drowned  and  still  in  waters  cool. 

Burning  so  luminously  in  these  pure  white  things 
Somehow  akin,  are  palpitating  fires, 
21 


Intangible,  yet  visible  as  spires 

Or  wings. 

And  close  at  hand,  an  unseen  Moslem  sings 

Blind,  haunting  chants,  which  speak 

Of  mystery,  forevermore  unguessed. 

O  shining  ones,  I  seek 

No  farther,  for  my  soul,  content, 

Divines  the  secret  of  the  Taj  Mahal  and  you 

Beauty  and  desire,  possessed 

In  white  tranquillity,  in  flaming  peace, 

Find  rest. 


22 


The  Gift 

What  is  this  wine  you  have  poured  for  me? 

You  have  offered  up 
Your  face  in  its  pure  transparency 

Like  a  crystal  cup 
Which  trembling  fingers  slowly  lift  — 

It  is  faintly  masked 
With  a  tremulous  smile.     You  have  brought  me  a  gift, 

Your  love,  unasked. 

Could  you  trust  my  reckless  hands  so  much? 

With  no  vow  spoken, 
You  gave  me  a  goblet,  which  at  a  touch 

Were  utterly  broken! 
Your  smile  replied:   "  Since  the  glass  was  filled 

It  little  mattered 
Whether  the  wine  were  drunk  or  spilled 

Or  the  goblet  shattered." 


The  Bridge 

I  walk  the  bridge  of  hours  from  dawn  till  night 
My  heart  beating  so  loud  in  joyous  wonder 
To  know  your  love,  that  I  can  scarcely  breathe ; 
But  in  the  lonely  darkness,  with  affright 
I  faintly  hear,  like  ominous,  distant  thunder 
The  unseen  ocean  surging  close  beneath. 

Our  bridge  so  frail,  eternity  so  vast ! 
When  we  must  sink  into  the  deep  at  last 
Heart  of  my  heart,  will  you  still  hold  me  fast? 


A  Temple 

I.    DOORWAY 

Carven  angels 

On  the  portals, 

Angels  with  crowns,  and  eagles 

And  golden  lions 

On  the  door. 

This  is  why 

The  alien  worshippers  went  their  way, 

Why  you  alone  discovered 

The  gates  were  open. 

You  touched  the  velvet  curtains  behind  them, 
They  parted  to  let  you  pass. 


II.    WINDOW 

I  make  a  window 

Of  you,  beloved, 

Through  which  the  sun  colours 

The  silence. 


Even  your  absences 
Are  spaces  I  have  filled 
With  sapphire; 


Your  denials 

Are  burning  gold, 

I  have  painted  your  reluctance 

Emerald  green : 

Your  silences 

Are  crimson 

On  which  your  words  make  delicate 

Black  tracery. 

As  for  me, 

My  will  is  the  grey  lead 

Which  I  have  bent  to  hold  the  coloured 

Panes  of  you. 


III.    SPIRE 

My  wish  goes  singing  upward 
Holding  a  chime  of  bells 
In  its  heart: 

Pigeons  know  my  silent  bells, 
Winds  touch  them  and  wonder. 

That  they  might  reach 
That  high  blue  — 

Till  star  fingers  touch  them 
Ever  so  gently  — 
26 


And  drifting  clouds 

Lay  cool  cheeks  against  them  — 

My  wish  goes  singing  upward 
Reaching  into  silence. 


IV.    PRIEDIEU 

Beauty  passes 
But  dust  is  eternal. 
Outside  the  temple 
Beauty  dies  in  the  wind. 

So  when  my  temple  is  fallen 
And  lies  in  dust, 

Where  then  will  be  the  memory 
Of  your  beauty? 

I  pray  my  dust 

That  it  may  hold  your  image 

Tomorrow  and  for  ever. 


V.    FESTIVAL 

The  beloved  is  returning, 
Let  the  bells  ring! 

I  too  am  a  tower 
Hung  with  bronze  bells, 
2.7 


I  too  am  a  bell 
Chiming  to  the  winds, 

I  too  am  the  wind 
Ringing  to  the  hills, 

I  too  am  the  hills 
Singing  to  the  sky. 

I  too  am  the  sky ! 

The  beloved  is  returning, 

Let  the  bells  ring ! 

VI.    DUSK 

There  is  no  soul  too  poor  to  build  a  temple 
Where  it  may  go  apart 
And  worship  darkness. 

For  out  of  darkness 

Images  shine  .  .  .  and  fade  .  .  . 

Since  now  there  is  no  worship  nor  any  music, 

Let  incense  be  a  curved  smile 

On  lips  that  remember, 

And  candles,  notes  of  laughter 

In  empty  dusk. 

Above, 

A  coloured  window  slowly  turns 
Black  to  the  night. 
28 


VII.   RUINS 

Temples  have  fallen 

Before  today, 

Stones  are  ever  loosening  their  hold 

One  on  another  .   .  . 

You  blocks  of  marble,  sleeping  in  the  sun, 
Can  you  remember  chiming  bells 
And  incense? 

Now  there  is  only  silence, 

Even  the  winged  stones  of  archways 

Sleep  in  peace. 


29 


Candles 

Silence  is  but  the  golden  frame 

That  holds  your  face, 
My  thoughts,  like  unblown  candle-flame 

In  a  holy  place 
Surround  you.     From  this  secret  shrine 

Somewhere  apart 
Do  you  not  feel  my  candles  shine 

Upon  your  heart? 


Winter  Night 

The  I  that  does  not  love  you 
I  have  kept  hidden  away 
In  the  dark. 

(I  never  dreamed 
There  was  a  You 
That  does  not  love  me ! ) 

Tonight  they  met. 

I  hear  their  words 
Falling  like  icicles 
Upon  me  ... 
I  am  frozen  in  terror  .  .  . 
Have  they  killed  the  You 
That  Loves  me? 

Beloved,  can  you  hear  me 
Through  the  bitter  sound 
Of  icicles  falling? 
Can  you  see  me  from  behind 
Your  frozen  eyes? 


Last  Days 

I 

Shall  I  pretend 

These  days  are  just  like  other  days? 

One  cannot  spend 

Every  day  for  seven  weeks 

Saying  good-bye. 

So  when  I  must 

I  speak  of  your  departure  casually 

As  though  it  were  a  hundred  years  away; 

As  Youth  is  wont  to  say: 

"  Sometime  we  all  must  die !  " 


II 

We  talk  of  all  the  happy  things  we  have  done, 

We  pass  them  in  review, 

"Do  you  remember?  "  is  often  on  our  lips. 

One  by  one 

We  touch  our  memories  and  put  them  all  away- 
How  shall  I  dare  to  look  at  them 
When  you  are  gone ! 
32 


Ill 


There  is  no  beginning  to  my  love 

Nor  any  end  — 

It  is  about  your  head 

Like  the  deep  air, 

More  than  your  breath  can  spend. 

It  is  about  your  heart 

Like  arms  of  faith  — 

Where  you  go,  it  is  there. 


IV 

There  are  no  last  things  to  say, 

What  promise  can  I  make? 

You  know  my  love  so  well. 

All  that  I  have  is  yours  to  take. 

(How  will  it  be,  with  part  of  me  away, 

Must  not  my  soul  be  changed?) 

Shall  I  stay  young  for  memory's  sake? 
Shall  I  be  old  and  grave  and  grey? 
If  I  might  choose,  how  could  I  tell! 


The  You  I  know 
I  shall  not  see  again, 
A  stranger  will  return. 


33 


How  shall  I  win  the  love 
Which  he  has  kept  apart 
With  a  blurred  image  which  once  was  I? 

I  shall  not  know  his  heart, 
How  can  I  learn? 


34 


Sorrow 

Sorrow  stands  in  a  wide  place, 

Blind  —  blind  — 

Beauty  and  joy  are  petals  blown 

Across  her  granite  face, 

They  cannot  find 

Sight  or  sentience  in  stone. 

Yesterday's  beauty  and  joy  lie  deep 
In  sorrow's  heart,  asleep. 


35 


Prison 

I  close  the  book  —  the  story  has  grown  dim, 
The  plot  confused;  the  hero  fades 
Behind  unmeaning  words,  and  over  him 
The  covers  close  like  window  shades 
On  empty  windows.     The  watchful  room 
Is  weary.     Dully  the  green  lamp  stares 
Into  the  shadows.     The  coals  are  dumb, 
The  clock  ticks  heavily.     The  chairs 
Wait  sullenly  for  guests  who  never  come. 

Suppose  I  leave  this  house,  suppose  my  feet 
Plodding  into  the  night 
Carry  me  down  the  empty  street 
Made  hideous  with  arcs  of  purple  light  .  ,  . 
Inevitably  I  must  return  to  bed. 
The  house  is  waiting,  chairs,  and  books,  and  clocks. 
I  am  their  prisoner.     I  have  no  more  chance 
Of  escape,  when  all  is  said, 
Than  a  dying  beetle  in  a  box  — 
And    life,    and    love, —  and    death  —  have    gone    to 
France. 


The  Dream  House 

I  steal  across  the  sodden  floor 

And  dead  leaves  blow  about, 

Where  once  we  planned  an  iron  door 
To  shut  the  whole  world  out ; 

I  find  the  hearth,  its  fires  unlit, 
Its  ashes  cold- — Tonight 

Only  the  stars  give  warmth  to  it, 
Only  the  moon  gives  light. 

And  yonder  on  our  spacious  bed 
Fashioned  for  love  and  sleep 

The  Autumn  goldenrod  lies  dead, 
The  maple-leaves  lie  deep. 


37 


III.     Studies  and  Designs 


A  Japanese  Vase 

(A  Design  to  be  Wrought  in  Metals) 

Five  harsh,  black  birds  in  shining  bronze  come  crying 

Into  a  silver  sky, 

Piercing  and  jubilant  is  the  shape  of  their  flying, 

Their  beaks  are  pointed  with  delight, 

Curved  sharply  with  desire, 

The  passionate  direction  of  their  flight, 

Clear  and  high, 

Stretches  their  bodies  taut  like  humming  wire. 

The  cold  wind  blows  into  angry  patterns  the  jet-bright 

Feathers  of  their  wings, 

Their  claws  curl  loosely,  safely,  about  nothingness, 

They  clasp  no  things. 

Direction  and  desire  they  possess 

By  which  in  sharp,  unswerving  flight  they  hold 

Across  an  iron  sea  to  the  golden  beach 

Whereon  lies  carrion,  their  feast.     A  shore  of  gold 

That  birds  wrought  on  a  vase  can  never  reach. 


The  Bow  Moon 

(A  print  by  Hiroshige) 

From  the  dawn,  Take  San, 

Ungathered  star, 

Follow  me  back  through  night 

Till  I  recapture 

Evening. 

(The  bending  'hours  of  darkness 

Sway  apart  like  lilies 

Before  the  backward-blowing  wind.) 

At  last, 

Bearing  in  iher  mysterious  bosom 

Unravished  beauty, 

Dark  Yesterday  rises  to  view  against  her  silent  sky 

Irrevocable  .  .  .  secret  .  .  . 

Confronting  the  fantastic  dream 

Of  an  impossible  Tomorrow. 

And  that  frail  bridge, 

Delicate,  immutable, 

Which  rises  higher  than  the  moon, 

More  everlasting  than  the  fading  sky, 

42 


Joining  What-was-not  with  What-might-have-been, 
That  bridge  were  named  "  Today  " 
If  I  had  loved  you,  Take  San, 
If  you  had  loved  me. 


43 


An  Italian  Chest 

(Lorenzo  Designs  a  Bas-Relief) 

Lust  is  the  oldest  lion  of  them  all 

And  he  shall  have  first  place, 

With  a  malignant  growl,  satirical, 

To  curve  in  foliations  prodigal 

Round  and  around  his  face, 

Extending  till  the  echoes  interlace 

With  Pride  and  Prudence,  two  cranes,  gaunt  and  tall. 

Four  lesser  lions  crouch  and  malign  the  cranes, 

Cursing  and  gossiping  they  shake  their  manes 

While  from  their  long  tongues  leak 

Drops  of  thin  venom  as  they  speak. 

The  cranes,  unmoved,  peck  grapes  and  grains 

From  a  huge  cornucopia,  which  rains 

A  plenteous  meal  from  its  antique 

Interior  (a  note  quite  curiously  Greek). 

And  nine  long  serpents  twist 

And  twine,  twist  and  twine, 

A  riotously  beautiful  design 

Whose  elements  consist 

Of  eloquent  spirals,  fair  and  fine, 

44 


Embracing  cranes  and  lions,  who  exist 
Seemingly  free,  yet  tangled  in  that  living  vine, 

And  in  this  chest  shall  be 

Two  cubic  meters  of  space 

Enough  to  hold  all  memory 

Of  you  and  me  — 

And  this  shall  be  the  place 

Where  silence  shall  embrace 

Our  bodies,  and  obliterate  the  trace 

Our  souls  made  on  the  purity 

Of  night  .   .   . 

Now  lock  the  chest,  for  we 

Are  dead,  and  lose  the  key ! 


45 


The  Pedlar 

Hark,  people,  to  the  cry 

Of  this  curious  young  magician-pedlar 

Seeking  a  golden  bowl ! 

He  wanders  through  the  city 
Offering  useful  tin-ware 
For  all  the  ancient  metal 
You  have  left  to  rust 
In  the  dim,  dusty  attic 
Or  mouldy  cellar 
Of  your  soul. 

He  refuses  nothing  — 

Rusty  nails 

Which  may  have  played  their  part 

In  a  crucifixion  — 

For  ten  of  these  he  will  give 

A  new  tin  spoon. 

The  andirons 

Once  guarding  hearth-fires  of  content, 

Now  dusty  and  forgotten 

In  an  obscure  corner, 

He  will  give  for  these 


A  new  tin  tea-kettle 
With  a  wooden  handle. 

And  for  this  antique  bowl 
Fashioned  to  hold 
Roses  or  wine? 

The  eyes  of  the  pedlar  glisten ! 

O  woman,  if  acid  reveal 

Gold  beneath  the  tarnished  surface 

He  will  gladly  give  you 

His  hands,  his  eyes,  his  soul, 

His  young,  white  body  — 

If  not, 

A  mocking  laugh 
And  a  bright  tin  sieve 
To  hold  your  wine 
And  roses. 


47 


Portrait  of  a  Lady  in  Bed 

I.    THE    COVERLET 

My  cowardice 
Covers  me  safely 
From  everything  .  .   . 

From  cold,  which  makes  me  yield 
And  quietly  die 
Beneath  the  snow; 

From  heat,  which  makes  me  faint 
Until  cool  nothingness  receives  me; 

From  hurt,  (Seize  me,  O  Lion, 
And  I  shall  die  of  fright 
Before  I  feel  your  teeth!) 

From  love, 

Yes,  most  of  all  from  love. 

How  can  love  touch  me? 
Is  it  not  heat, 
Or  cold, 
Or  a  lion? 

48 


My  cowardice  covers  me 

Safely 

From  everything  I 


II.    THE    PILLOW 

To  know  you  think  of  me 
Sustains  my  spirit 
Through  the  long  night. 

(My  thought  of  you 

Is  wine,  banishing  sleep!) 

Your  thoughts  of  me  are  feathers, 

Light  nothings, 

Drifting,  dancing, 

Floating, 

Blown  by  a  breath  of  fancy 

Away  from  your  sight. 

They  would  choke  me, 

They  would  blind  me 

With  the  Nothing  I  am  to  you 

If  I  dared  see  them; 

But  I  bind  them  into  a  pillow, 

And  to  know  that  you  think  of  me 

Sustains  my  spirit 

Through  the  night. 


49 


III.    SOUVENIR 

Harlequin,  seeing  me  gay 

You  loved  me, 

For  fools  need  mirth, 

O  solemn  Harlequin ! 

Tall  tragedians  make  me  laugh 

Joyously,  riotously, 

Tall,  dark  villains,  and  heroes  with  blonde  hair 

Make  me  laugh  uproariously  .  .   . 

(I  could  elope  with  a  tragedian!) 

But  you  with  your  clowning,  Harlequin, 
Brought  bony  truth  too  near  — 

Harlequin,  I  might  have  loved  you 
But  I  could  not  make  you  gay! 


IV.    THE    CURTAIN 

I  do  not  fear 

You,  or  me,  or  death, 

There  now  is  nothing  left  to  fear 

But  this, 

This  curtain  of  blackness. 

Once  I  feared  you, 
And  all  you  thought  and  felt 
50 


And  all  you  said  and  did : 

I  feared  myself, 

And  all  you  made  me  think  and  feel 

And  say  and  do  • — 

Now  I  no  longer  fear 

Thinking,  feeling,  saying,  doing, 

Nor  blankness,  silence,  apathy,  torpor 

I  do  not  fear 

You,  or  me,  or  death  — 

I  only  fear 

This  curtain  of  blackness 

Which  is  your  absence. 


V.    THE   DREAM 

Harlequin  comes  to  me,  smiling, 
Through  the  white-shining  birch  trees 
Of  the  twilight  wood. 

He  has  forgiven 
My  cowardice  and  hesitations, 
Soon  I  shall  sink  into  his  arms 
With  all  the  imagined  fervour 
Of  a  thousand  dreams. 

Why  does  he  come  so  slowly? 
There  is  no  longer  anything 
To  mar  our  meeting  .  .  . 


This  must  be  real 
For  Harlequin  is  still  clowning, 
He  waves  his  arms  grotesquely 
To  make  me  smile  .... 

Quick,  into  his  arms 
With  unspent  fervour  .   .   . 
Why  are  the  trees  all  sighing? 
Look,  whispering  birches,  if  you  will, 
I  and  my  love  embrace  ! 

They  do  not  look, 

They  do  not  seem  to  care  .  .  . 

Embrace  me,  my  beloved ! 
(Can  these  by  passionate  kisses? 
They  feel  so  thin  and  cool 
Like  mist. ) 

The  birches  shiver 

As  though  the  night-wind  stirred  them. 

Can  we  be  dead? 


Portrait  of  a  Gentleman 

Tower  of  stone 

Rugged  and  lonely, 

My  thoughts  like  ivy 

Embrace  my  memory  of  you, 

Climbing  riotously,  wantonly, 

Till  the  harsh  walls 

Are  clothed  in  tender  green. 

Tower  of  stone, 

Stark  walls  and  a  narrow  door 

Which  speak : 

"  You  who  are  not  for  me 

Are  against  mey — 

If  you  are  mine, 

Enter!" 

But  who  would  be  prisoned 
In  unknown  darkness? 

Tower  of  stone 

Rugged  and  lonely, 

I  dared  not  enter  and  I  would  not  go 

Till  clasping  you 

My  arms  were  bruised  and  torn. 

53 


From  the  Madison  Street  Police  Station 

I,  John  Shepherd,  vagrant, 
Petition  the  park  commissioners 
For  wider  benches. 

My  soul  has  long  been  reconciled 
To  the  prick  of  gunny-sack, 
(O  well-remembered  woollen  fleeces!) 
And  rustling  vests  of  newspaper, 
And  the  chill  of  rubbers  on  unshod  feet, 
But  to  the  wasteful  burning  of  dry  leaves, 
God's  shepherd's  mattress, 
Never ! 

Descendant  of  ancient  ones 
Who  tended  flocks  and  watched  the  midnight  sky, 
My  forebears  saw  the  Eastern  star  appear 
Over  Judean  hills. 

Where  do  your  flocks  graze,  gentlemen? 
Are  there  no  sheep  or  shepherds  any  more  ? 
All  day  long  I  sought  the  flocks 
And  came  by  night  to  a  wide,  grassy  place, 
Where  I  could  sit  and  watch  the  stars  wheel  by  — • 
And  in  the  morning  some  one  brought  me  here. 
54 


La  Felice 

La  Felice,  by  the  forest  pond 

looks  through  leaves  to  the  Western  screen 

of  Chinese  gold  that  lies  beyond 

black  trees  and  boughs  of  golden-green. 

The  little  body  of  La  Felice 

weary  of  everything  on  earth 

has  passed  from  love  to  love,  till  peace 

and  beauty  alone  have  any  worth. 

So  still  and  deep  the  water  lies, 

so  fiery-cool,  so  yellow-clear; 

u  Here  beauty  sleeps !  "     La  Felice  cries, 

11 1  will  give  myself  to  beauty  here  I" 

The  mud  is  smooth  and  deep,  the  weeds 
beneath  her  feet  are  soft  and  cool, 
ripples  widen  and  glistening  beads 
of  bubble  rise  on  the  forest  pool. 

The  water  reaches  to  her  knee, 
now  to  her  thigh,  now  to  her  breast, 
till  like  a  child  all  peacefully 
does  La  Felice  lie  down  to  rest. 

55 


She  struggles  like  a  fearful  bride 
with  ecstasy  —  then  La  Felice 
turns  quietly  upon  her  side 
and  over  the  sunset  pool  is  peace. 


The  Journey 

Three  women  walked  through  the  snow 

Beneath  an  empty  sky, 
And  one  was  blind,  and  one  was  old, 

And  one  was  I. 

Bravely  the  Blind  One  led, 

I  questioned  from  behind 
"  Tell  me,  where  do  we  go?  "     She  said 

"  Have  courage  ...  I  am  blind!  " 

We  came  at  last  to  a  cliff, 

The  Blind  One  plunged,   and  was  gone 
I  looked  behind  me,  stark  and  stiff 

The  Old  One  stood  in  the  dawn. 

The  deep  crevasse  was  black 

Beneath  the  dawning  day, 
I  could  not  turn  and  travel  back, 

The  Old  One  barred  the  way. 

I  could  not  turn  aside, 

(To  lead,  one  dare  not  see) 

I  think  that  day  I  must  have  died 
Such  silence  is  in  me. 

57 


The  Last  Illusion 

Along  the  twilight  road  I  met  three  women, 
And  they  were  neither  old  nor  very  young; 
In  her  hands  each  bore  what  she  most  cherished, 
For  they  were  neither  rich,  nor  very  poor. 

In  the  hands  of  the  first  woman 
I  saw  white  ashes  in  an  urn, 
In  the  hands  of  the  next  woman 
I  saw  a  tarnished  mirror  gleam, 
In  the  hands  of  the  last  woman 
I  saw  a  heavy,  jagged  stone  — 

Along  the  twilight  road  I  met  three  women, 
And  they  were  neither  fools  nor  very  wise, 
For  each  was  troubled  lest  another  covet 
Her  precious  burden  —  so  they  walked  alone. 


The  Desert 

Through  dusty  years,  and  drearily, 

Two  lovers  rode  across  a  desert  hill 

While  patient  love  followed  them  wearily 

Through  the  long,  sultry  day  .   .  . 

But  when  night  came,  the  desert  had  its  way, 

Turning,  they  found  love  cold  and  still. 

It  lay  so  pitiful  a  thing, 

Threadbare,  and  soiled,  and  worn  — 

"  Why  have  we  kept  such  starveling  love?  "  she  cried, 

"  Was  it  worth  treasuring?  " 

And  he  replied: 

"  Bury  it  then!      I  shall  not  mourn!  " 

The  wind  came  from  the  West, 

It  seemed  to  blow 

Across  a  million  graves  to  the  sordid  bier 

Where  lay  their  love.     She  said:    "  We  will  bury  it 

here!" 

They  laid  it  low, 
They  rode  on,  dispossessed. 

And  all  around 

Rose  silent  hills  against  the  darkening  sky, 

59 


Wave  upon  motionless  wave. 

The  night  wind  made  a  mournful  sound. 

The  woman  turned :  "It  is  lonely  here ! 

I  am  afraid!  "  she  said. 

He  made  reply: 

"  What  is  there  left  to  lose  or  save? 

What  is  there  left  to  fear? 

Our   hearts    are    empty.     Have    we    not   buried   our 

dead?" 

She  said,  "  I  fear  the  empty  dark,  be  kind!  " 
He  said,  "  I  am  still  here,  be  comforted!  " 

Then  from  its  shallow  grave 

Their  love  rose  up  and  followed  close  behind. 


60 


The  Picnic 

Here  they  come,  in  pairs,  carrying  baskets, 

Pale   clerks  with  brilliant  neckties,   and  cheap  serge 

suits, 

Steering  girls  by  the  arm,  clerks,  too, 
Pretty  and  slim  and  smart, 
Even  to  yellow  kid  boots,  laced  up  behind. 

They  take  the  electric  cars  far  into  the  country, 

They   descend,    gaily   chattering,    at   the   Amusement 

Park. 

Under  the  trees  they  eat  the  lunch  they  have  carried  — 
Salad,  sausages,  sandwiches,  candy,  warm  beer. 
They  ride  in  the  roller-coaster,  two  in  a  seat, 
(Glorious  danger!     Warm,  delicious  proximity!) 
The  unaccustomed  beer  floods  their  veins  like  heady 

wine, 
And  smothered  youth  awakens  with  shrill  screams  of 

joy. 

The  sun  sets,  and  evening  is  drowned  in  electric  lights ; 
Arm-in-arm,  they  wander  under  the  trees 
Everywhere  meeting  others,  wandering  arm-in-arm 
In  the  same  wistful  wonder,  seeking  they  know  not 

what. 
61 


Two  leave  the  park  and  the  crowds  —  The  stars  shine 

out, 

A  river  runs  at  their  feet,  behind  them,  a  leafy  copse, 
Away  on  the  other  shore,  the  fields  of  grain 
Lie  sleeping  peacefully  in  the  starlight. 
Tonight  the  world  is  theirs,  a  legacy 
From  those  who  lived  familiar  friends  with  river,  field 

and  forest  — 
Their  forebears. 

Through  the  night,  the  same  earth-magic  moves  them 
Which  swayed  those  ancient  ones,  long-dead  — 
And  these,  too,  lean  and  drink, 
Drink  deeply  from  the  river,  the  flowing  river  of  life. 

Slowly  they  return  to  the  crowds  and  the  brilliant  lights, 
Dazzled,  they  look  aside,  silently  climb  on  the  cars. 
They  cling  to  the  swaying  straps,  weary,  inert,  con 
fused. 
The  lurching  car  makes  halt  —  they  are  thrown  in  each 

others'  arms  — 

Alien  and  unmoved,  they  sway  apart  again  — 
The  car  moves  through  the  fields  and  suburbs  back  to 
the  town. 

They  leave  the  car  in  pairs,  the  picnic  baskets 

Rattling  dismally,  plate  and  spoon  and  jar. 

The  boy  takes  his  girl  to  her  lodgings  in  awkward 

silence. 
62 


They    look    askance  —  "  Good-night  I  "  —  the    front 

door  closes, 

Indeed  their  eyes  have  not  met,  since  by  the  river 
Those  wondrous  moments 
Linked  them  to  earth  and  night,  not  to  each  other. 


IV.     Interlude 


Mountain  Trails 

(GLACIER  PARK,  SEPT.  '17) 

I 

Night  stands  in  the  valley 

Her  head 

Is  bound  with  stars, 

While  Dawn,  a  grey-eyed  nun 

Steals  through  the  silent  trees. 

Behind  the  mountains 

Morning  shouts  and  sings 

And  dances  upward. 

ii 

The  peaks  even  today  show  finger  prints 
Where  God  last  touched  the  earth 
Before  he  set  it  joyously  in  space 
Finding  it  good. 


Ill 

You,  slender  shining  — 
You,  downward  leaping  — 
Born  from  silent  snow 


To  drown  at  last  in  the  blue  silent 
Mountain  lake  — 
You  are  not  snow  or  water, 
You  are  only  a  silver  spirit 
Singing ! 


IV 

Sharp  crags  of  granite, 
Pointing,  threatening, 
Thrust  fiercely  up  at  me ; 
And  near  the  edge,  their  menace 
Would  whirl  me  down. 


Climbing  desperately  toward  the  heights 
I  glance  in  terror  behind  me 
To  be  deafened  —  to  be  shattered  — 
By  a  thunderbolt  of  beauty. 


VI 

The  mountains  hold  communion; 
They  are  priests,  silent  and  austere, 
They  have  come  together 
In  a  secret  place 
With  unbowed  heads. 


68 


VII 

This  hidden  lake 

Is  a  sapphire  cup  — 

An  offering  clearer  than  wine, 

Colder  than  tears. 

The  mountains  hold  it  toward  the  sky 

In  silence. 


October  Morning 

October  is  brown 
In  field  and  row  — 

Yet  goldenrod 
And  goldenglow, 
Purple  asters 
And  ruddy  oaks, 
Sumach  spreading 
Crimson  cloaks, 
Apples  red 
And  pumpkins  gold  —  ? 

Perhaps  it's  gayer 
To  be  old! 


70 


October  Afternoon 

The  air  is  warm  and  winey-sweet, 
Over  my  head  the  oak-leaves  shine 
Like  rich  Madeira,  glossy  brown, 
Or  garnet  red,  like  old  Port  wine. 
Wild  grapes  are  ripening  on  the  hill, 
Dead  leaves  curl  thickly  at  my  feet, 
Yet  not  one  falls,  it  is  so  still. 
Crickets  are  singing  in  the  sun, 
And  aimlessly  grasshoppers  leap 
From  discontent  to  discontent, 
Their  days  of  leaping  nearly  done. 
There's  a  rich  quietness  of  earth 
That  holds  no  promise  any  more, 
And  like  a  cup,  Today  is  filled 
With  the  last  wine  the  year  shall  pour. 


Maternity 

Sturdy  is  earth, 
Dull  and  mighty, 
Unresentful  — 
Of  her  own  fertility 
Covering  scars 
With  healing  green. 

You  cannot  anger  earth, 
You  cannot  cause  her  pain 
Nor  make  her  remember 
Your  hungry,  querulous  love. 

At  last  your  unwilling  body 
She  tranquilly  receives 
And  turns  it  to  her  uses. 


72 


The  Father  Speaks 

My  little  son,  when  you  were  born 

There  died  a  being,  sweet  and  wild, 
A  lovely,  careless,  radiant  child, 

A  passionate  woman  —  her  I  mourn. 

And  in  her  place  has  come  another, 

With  troubled  smile  and  brooding  eyes, 
Insatiate  of  sacrifice 

And  wholly,  utterly  your  mother. 


73 


To  Allen 

Beauty,  the  dream  that  I  have  dreamed  so  much 

Comes  true  in  your  quick  smile, 

And  on  your  cheek  I  see  her  touch 

And  sometimes  in  your  eyes  a  while 

Immortal  beauty's  fleeting  image  lies. 

Dear  child,  in  whose  veins  beat 

The  marching  centuries  of  lovers'  feet, 

All  those  brave,  ardent  ghosts  in  you  arise  — 

The  souls  who,  loving  beauty,  gave  you  birth, 

With  a  chain  of  passion  binding  beauty  to  earth, 

A  captured  dream  —  these  souls  breathe  with  your 

breath 
Living  again  in  beauty  that  knows  no  death. 


74 


To  Helen 

Lie  still  in  my  arms,  little  four-years-old, 

Little  bud  that  glows 
With  more  beauty  and  passion  than  it  can  hold, 

Little  flaming  rose, 

The  spring's  red  blossoms,  when  winter  lies  deep 

On  a  wind-swept  world 
Of  tossing  branches,  lie  safely  asleep 

In  brown  buds  curled. 

They  wake  —  and  the  wind  strips  their  petals  away 

And  spills  them  afar  — 
Can  I  keep  you  from  blooming,  whatever  I  say, 

Wild  bud  that  you  are ! 


75 


The  Immortal 

Child  of  a  love  denied,  a  dream  unborn, 
Spirit  more  brave 

Than  passion's  unfulfilment,  wiser  than  fate  - 
Nor  breast  nor  grave 
As  cradle  you  have  known, — 
I  mourn 

That  my  soul  knows  its  own 
Too  late ! 

A  soul's  half-breath, 
Passion's  unremembered  dream, 
Perfume  without  a  vase, 
Intangible  you  seem 
To  life  or  death. 

And  when  the  coloured  mantle  of  the  days 
Slips  from  my  shoulders,  and  I  lie 
Forgetful,  dumb, 

Mingled  with  earth  in  passionless  embrace, 
Will  you,  forgotten  as  a  bird, 
Singing  unheard 
In  space, 

Will  you  not  come 
When  every  other  dream  is  gone, 


Bringing  to  that  silent  place 

The  shadow  of  a  gesture  flung 

By  motionless  hands,  a  floating  echo  hung 

From  an  unspoken  word, 

And  to  the  empty  sky 

The  sunset  of  a  day  which  did  not  dawn 

And  cannot  die! 


77 


To  an  Absent  Child 

I 

At  first  in  dreams 

I  pressed  you  so  close 

That  you  melted  away  on  my  breast, 

But  now  I  wait,  breathless  and  motionless, 

Till  I  feel  your  slender  arms  caress  me 

Like  swallows  blown  against  me 

And  quickly  flown. 


II 

Small  flower, 

My  body  is  the  earth  from  which  you  sprang, 

But  we  are  more  to  each  other  than  earth  and  flower, 

Closer,  even,  than  earth  and  flower, 

For  the  sky  in  me  is  one  with  the  sky  in  you  .  .  . 

My  love  for  you 

Is  like  sunlight  shining  in  a  quiet  place, 
You  shall  feel  my  love  like  soft  light 
Pouring  about  you. 

78 


Ill 

I  will  not  kiss  you, 

For  my  kisses  are  a  chain  without  an  end ; 

Nor  take  you  in  my  arms, 

My  arms  would  smother  you  against  my  breast ; 

I  will  not  even  touch  your  shining  head  — 

But  lift  your  eyes  up,  flower-face, 

And  I  will  fill  them  as  full  of  love 

As  they  can  hold! 


IV 

Ah  no !     If  you  were  here 

I  would  sweep  you  into  my  arms  and  hold  you  close! 

Though  my  love  is  of  the  spirit 

I  must  feel  your  little  restless  body 

Pressed  for  a  moment  against  my  heart. 


79 


Summer  Night 

Rain,  rain  murmuring  endless  complaints 
In  mournful  whisperings  that  never  cease, 
You  bring  my  tired  brain  a  certain  peace 
Like  Latin  prayers  to  absent-minded  saints. 

And  whether  silently  to  earth  you  fall, 
Or  dashed  and  driven  in  tempestuous  flight 
Like  souls  before  God's  wrath,  the  thirsty  night, 
The  soft  and  fecund  earth  shall  drink  you  all. 


80 


Maura 

I 

Maura  dreams  unwakened  — 

The  warm  winds  touch  the  bands 

That  hold  her  hair. 

The  call  of  a  silver  horn  floats  by, 

A  lover  tosses  flowers  into  her  hands. 

Maura  dreams  unwakened  — 
She  joins  the  maidens  in  their  dance, 
Her  limbs  follow  slow  rhythms, 
A  lover  leads  her  into  the  shade, 
She  moves  as  in  a  trance. 


II 

What  dim  confusion 

Troubles  her  dream, 

What  passionate  caress 

Disturbs  her  spirit's  rapt  seclusion? 

Earth  draws  her  close.     How  warm 
Is  lover-earth!     Like  a  sleeping  bird 
She  gives  herself,  then  suddenly 
She  is  a  leaf  whirled  in  the  storm. 

Somewhere  in  a  quiet  room,  her  soul  unstirred, 

Dead  ...  or  sleeping, 

Through  the  blind  tumult  hears  afar 

81 


The  note  of  a  horn,  like  a  silver  thread. 
She  has  given  her  soul  to  an  echo's  keeping. 


Ill 

Who  knows  the  mountain  where  the  hunter  rides 

Winding  his  'horn? 

Maura  who  heard  it  in  her  dream 

Wakens  forlorn, 

Too  late  to  catch  the  tenuous  thread 

Of  silver  sound 

Which  in  the  troubled,  intricate  fugue  of  earth 

Is  drowned. 


IV 

Maura  cannot  follow  over  the  hill, 

Her  youth  is  landlocked  as  a  hidden  pool 

Where  thirsty  love  drinks  deep, 

A  shining  pool,  where  lingers 

The  colour  of  an  unseen  golden  sky, 

A  pool  where  echoes  fall  asleep. 

But  restless  fingers 

Trouble  the  waters  cool, 

Snatch  at  reflected  beauty,  and  destroy 

The  mirrored  dream.     The  pool  is  never  still, 

And  broken  echoes  die. 


82 


The  silver  call  has  gone,  but  there  is  left  to  her 

The  gentleness  of  earth, 

The  simple  mysteries  of  sleep  and  death, 

Of  love  and  birth. 

There  are  faces  hungry  for  smiles,  and  starving  fingers 

Reaching  for  dreams. 

And  like  a  memory  are  the  wind-swept  chords  of  night, 

And  the  wide  melody  of  evening  sky 

Where  gleams 

A  colour  like  the  echo  of  a  horn. 

There  is  a  far  hill  where  winds  die, 

And  over  the  hill  lies  music  yet  unborn. 


VI 

Maura  lies  dead  at  last, 

The  body  she  gave  to  child  and  lover 

Now  feeds  flower  and  tree. 

Earth's  arms  are  wide  to  her.     What  breast 
Offers  such  gentle  sleeping? 
Her  limbs  lie  peacefully. 

From  the  dark  West 
There  comes  a  note  like  the  echoing  cry 
Of  one  who  rides  through  the  dusk  alone 
After  the  hunt  sweeps  by. 

83 


It  fades  —  the  night  wind  is  forlorn  — 

Music  is  still, 

But  Maura  has  followed  the  silver  horn 

Over  the  distant  hill, 

Over  the  hill  where  all  winds  die. 


November  Dusk 

Where  like  ghosts  of  verdant  days 

Whispering  down, 
Leaves  in  the  November  dusk 

Drift  and  drown, 

Stand  two  lovers,  motionless 

And  apart 
In  their  sturdy  nakedness 

Of  the  heart, 

Two  dark  figures,  side  by  side 

Through  the  mist 
Standing  as  though  time  had  died 

Since  they  kissed, 

Whose  deep  roots,  alive  and  sound 

Blindly  reach 
Mingling  in  the  fertile  ground 

Each  with  each  — 

Pray  that  we,  when  gaunt  and  old 

Like  bare  trees 
Through  our  common  earth  may  hold 

Close,  like  these ! 
85 


Winter  Valley 
I 

Grey  grasses  drown 

In  thin  brown  water 

Wound  like  a  chain  on  the  valley's 

Sunken  breast. 

Fallen  leaves  on  the  stream 
Float  motionless  —  rest  — 
So  secretly  the  pale 
Water  winds  around 
Toward  hidden  pools, 

Or  sinking  in  the  earth 
Is  drowned. 


II 

Curved  crimson  stems, 
Thorny  fingers  of  vine, 
Reach  toward  the  wind. 

Sunlight,  thin  and  cold, 
Touches  them  —  they  shine. 
86 


Nothing  passes  for  thorns  to  hold  — 

Red  thorns, 

Catching  at  shadows  of  the  wind. 


Ill 

Silence  in  the  valley, 
Silence  without  wings  — 

Like  the  caught  breath 
Of  an  unspoken  word 
When  no  words  come. 

Withered  reeds,  and  thin  brown  water 
Above  the  reeds 
Are  dumb. 


IV 

For  what  are  you  waiting,  winter  valley, 
Withered  valley,  brown  with  reeds  ? 
You  are  hushed  with  waiting. 

You  are  old  with  secrets, 

You  are  tranquil  with  forgetting. 

You  are  harsh  with  thorns 
Of  fruits  long  vanished. 


V.     Love  Poems  in  Autumn 


Ballad 

Follow,  follow  me  into  the  South, 
And  if  you  are  brave  and  wise 

I'll  buy  you  laughter  for  your  mouth, 
Sorrow  for  your  eyes. 

I'll  buy  you  laughter,  wild  and  sweet, 
And  sorrow,  grey  and  still, 

But  you  must  follow  with  willing  feet 
Over  the  farthest  hill. 

Follow,  follow  me  into  the  South, 
You  may  return  tomorrow 

Wearing  my  kisses  on  your  mouth, 
In  your  eyes  my  sorrow. 


9.1 


The  Pathway  of  Black  Leaves 

I.    THE    TURNING 

The  pathway  opened  before  her  eyes 
Between  black  leaves  — 
She  laughed,  and  shivered,  and  turned  aside 
From  the  dusty  road. 

Her  feet  moved  on  like  heart-beats, 

She  could  not  stop  them ; 

Relentlessly  each  step  fulfilled  itself 

And  the  steps  behind  it  — 

A  hidden  chain,  drawing  her  onward 

Captive. 

And  yet  she  'said:  "  Now  I  walk  free 
At  last !  " 

II.    TOLL-GATE 

The  sign  read: 

"  Paupers  may  pass  untaxed, 
The  Rich  shall  pay  a  penny, 
The  Poor 

Must  give  all  they  possess." 
92 


She  emptied  her  pockets  bravely  and  passed  through  . 

They  gave  her  a  golden  coin  in  return  for  her  silver, 

Bearing  on  one  side  the  head  of  a  king, 

And  on  the  other  a  worn  inscription 

Curved  like  a  wreath 

And  written  in  a  tongue  she  did  not  know. 


III.    THE    INN 

There  was  the  inn,  beside  the  path, 

Standing  like  the  words  of  an  ancient  prophet 

Forgotten  long,  now  suddenly  come  true. 

'  They  who  break  bread  here 
Shall  not  eat  for  hunger; 
They  who  lie  here 
Shall  not  sleep." 

All  night  long  the  black  leaves,  one  by  one, 
Laughed,  and  shivered,  and  fell  into  darkness. 


IV.    RETURN 

She  has  come  home 

To  the  house  she  knew : 

But  she  has  forgotten 

The  square  oaken  smile  of  the  door. 

The  room  is  a  stranger, 

The  fire  is  sullen ; 

93 


On  her  hair  a  black  leaf  shines 
And  clings  where  it  fell. 

Against  her  heart 

She  has  hidden  away 

The  bitter  golden  profile  of  a  king. 


94 


Elegy 

I  would  be  autumn  earth,  and  hold 

Your  beautiful  body,  slain, 

Where,  lying  still  and  cold, 

Only  the  winter  rain 

Shall  touch  your  limbs  and  face; 

Where  the  white  frost  shall  wed 

Your  body  to  black  mould 

In  the  close,  passionless  embrace 

Of  that  dark  marriage  bed : 

I  would  be  autumn  earth,  and  hold 

Your  beautiful  body,  dead. 


95 


Sequence 

I.    ARRIVAL 

Shining  highways 

Sing  to  your  step, 

Windows  beckon, 

Doorways  open  a  square  embrace. 

Doors  laugh  gently 
Swinging  together 
Behind  you. 


II.    THE   TOWER 

There's  a  flag  on  my  tower, 

And  my  windows 

Are  orange  to  the  night. 

They  are  set  in  grey  stone  that  frowns 

At  the  black  wind. 

Inside,  there's  a  guest  at  my  hearth, 

And  a  fire 

Painting  the  grey  stone  gold. 

My  windows  are  black 

With  the  hungry  night  peering  through  them. 


Blackness  lurks  in  corners, 
Wind  snatches  the  sparks, 
Tongs  and  poker  jangle  together 
Like  the  iron  bones 
Of  a  man  that  was  hanged. 


III.    THEY   WHO    DANCE 

The  feet  of  dancers 

Shine  with  mirth, 

Their  hearts  are  vibrant  as  bells: 

The  air  flows  by  them 
Divided  like  water 
Cut  by  a  gleaming  ship. 

Triumphantly  their  bodies  sing, 
Their  eyes  are  blind 
With  music. 

They  move  through  threatening  ghosts 
Feeling  them  cool  as  mist 
On  their  brows. 

They  who  dance 

Find  infinite  golden  floors 

Beneath  their  feet. 


97 


IV.    PIANISSIMO 

I  took  Night 

Into  my  arms, 

Night  lay  upon  my  breast. 

If  night  had  wings 

She  would  have  brought  me 

Stars  for  my  hair. 

The  stars  laughed 

Lightly 

From  far  away. 

About  my  shoulders 
White  mist  curled. 


V.    PORTRAIT   BY   ZULOAGA 

Death  lies  in  wait 

For  those  who  do  not  know 

What  they  desire, 

And  Hell  for  those 

Who  fear  what  they  have  taken. 

These  hands  are  wrinkled 

From  stretching  forth, 

Brown 

From  the  winds  blowing  upon  them. 

They  are  strong  with  -seizing, 
They  do  not  tremble. 


VI.    GESTURES 

Let  there  be  dancing  figures 
On  our  wine-flask, 
Swastikas  on  our  rug, 
Inscriptions  in  our  rings 
And  on  our  dwelling. 

Let  us  build  ritual 

For  our  worship, 

Pledge  our  love 

With  vows  and  holy  promises. 

If  oaths  are  broken, 

Let  it  be  darkly 

With  threatening  gestures. 

Thus  we  ignore 
That  we  love  and  die 
Like  insects. 


VII.    VEILS 

I  shall  punish  your  blindness 
With  a  veil. 

I  shall  choose  words  that  join 
Gaily  word  to  word, 
I  shall  weave  them  flauntingly 
Into  veil  upon  veil, 
99 


I  shall  wind  them  defiantly 
Over  my  lips,  over  my  eyes. 

You  shall  not  see  your  name 
On  my  lips, 

You  shall  not  see  your  image 
In  my  eyes! 

And  through  my  veils  I  shall  not  see 
That  you  are  blind. 


VIII.    FREEDOM 

I  would  be  free 

From  two  old  superstitions, 

Thanks  and  Forgiveness. 

So  I  would  think  of  you 
As  Flame, 
As  Wind, 
As  Night, 

To  whom  I  have  been 
Wind, 
And  Flame 
And  Night, 

Together  burned  and  swept, 
Now  smothered 
In  separate  darkness. 
100 


IX.    MUD 

I  am  dazed  and  weary 
From  the  shapelessness 
Of  what  I  am  — 

I  am  poured 

Among  haphazard  stones 

In  meaningless  patterns. 

Yesterday's  sun  dried  me 
Between  rounded  cobbles, 
Today's  deluge  sweeps  me 
Toward  alien  pavements, 
Tomorrow's  sun  shall  dry  me 
In  a  new  design. 

Better  the  turbid  gutter 
Toward  the  open  sea ! 


X.    FOOLS   SAY  — 

November's  breath 

Is  black  in  the  branches  of  trees 

And  under  the  bushes, 

Harsh  rain 

Whips  down  the  rustling  dance 
Of  leaves. 
101 


There  is  smoke 

.In, the  throat  of  the  wind, 

Its  teeth 

Bite  away  beauty. 

Let  fools  say: 

"  Spring 

Will  come  again!  " 


102 


Disillusion 

I  touch  joy  and  it  crumbles  under  my  fingers  — 
The  dust  from  it  rises  and  fills  the  world, 
It  blinds  my  eyes  —  I  cannot  see  the  sun. 
A  choking  fog  of  dust  shuts  me  apart. 

I  remember  the  sparkling  wind  on  a  bright  autumn 

morning, 

I  let  down  my  hair  and  danced  in  the  golden  gale, 
Then   chased    the    wind    as    the    wind    chased    fallen 

leaves  — 
Wind  cannot  be  caught  and  tamed  like  a  bird. 

I  touch  joy  and  it  crumbles  to  dust  in  my  fingers. 


103 


November  Afternoon 

Upon  our  heads 

The  oak  leaves  fall 

Like  silent  benedictions 

Closing  Autumn's  gorgeous  ritual, 

And  we,  upborne  by  worship, 

Lift  our  eyes  to  the  altar  of  distant  hills. 

Beloved 

How  can  I  know 

What  gods  are  yours, 

How  can  I  guess  the  visions  of  your  spirit, 

Or  hear 

The  silent  prayers  your  heart  has  said? 

Only  by  this  I  feel 

Your  gods  akin  to  mine, 

That  when  our  lips  have  met 

On  this  last  golden  Autumn  afternoon 

They  have  confessed  in  silence 

Our  kisses  were  less  precious  than  our  dreams. 

Today,  our  passion  drowned  in  beauty, 
We  turn  away  our  faces  toward  the  hills 
Where  purple  haze,  old  incense, 
Spreads  its  veil. 
104 


Yareth  at  Solomon's  Tomb 

At  last 

Your  search  is  at  an  end, 
King  Solomon, 

You,  restless  dreamer, 
For  whom  each  face  held  promise 
Unfulfilled, 

Whose  hungry  arms  held  many  women, 
(Though  none  could  fill  your  need) 
Who  seized,  but  never  loved, 
This  is  your  sepulchre  .  .  . 

I  who  till  today 
Questioned  my  heart 
Now  find  it  buried  with  you 
In  this  tomb ; 

So  now  I  can  forgive  you 
That  you  never  believed 
My  love  I 


105 


Argolis 

Like  sun  on  grasses 

Warming  to  life 

Quaint  beetles,  curious  weeds, 

Till  earth  awakens,  pregnant  beneath  its  rays 

So  came  the  shepherds  down  to  Argolis. 

As  nameless  trees 

Cast  cloud-grey  shadows  there 

On  moon-pale,  tarnished  snow, 

Till  snow  and  shadow  are  lost, 

Alike  confused  and  forgotten 

Among  the  withered  reeds  — 

So  lies  their  memory  across  its  heart. 


106 


St.  Faith's  Eve 

We  stood  together  on  a  balcony 
An  hour  when  the  night 
Died  into  blankness, 
And  light  mist 

Curling  beneath  us,  hid  the  earth, 
And  the  cold,  unburied  stars 
Drew  further  into  space  .  .  . 

I  turned  to  meet  your  eyes 
And  saw 

Like  a  light,  rosy  veil 
Your  flesh  sink  gently  down 
Leaving  only  the  simple  skeleton 
And  a  white  voice  which  said: 
"  This  still  is  I, 
Do  you  love  me 
Now?  " 

Quietly,  and  without  sadness 
I  looked  upon  you, 
For  comfort  blindly  reached  my  soul 
And  primitive  beauty. 
Without  passion,  without  fervour, 
I  spoke  at  last  : 
107 


"  Somehow  Faith 

Shines  from  your  empty  eyeJioles, 

And  Truth 

Speaks  mutely  from  your  fleshless  jaws. 

I  choose  your  skeleton  to  lie  with 

In  the  peaceful  bed  of  earth 

Through  all  the  dreamless,  mornless,  utter  night  1" 


108 


Poems  of  Elijah  Hay 


The  Golden  Stag 

0  hungry  hearted  ones,  sharp-limbed,  keen-eyed, 

Let  me  have  place ! 

1  too  would  ride 

On  your  fantastic  chase. 

Your  hunger  is  a  silver  hunting  horn, 

I  heard  it  sweep 
The  frozen,  peaceful  morn : 

Its  note  bit  me  from  sleep. 

I  will  ride  with  you,  hunters,  even  I, 

Toward  a  far  hill 
To  see  the  golden  stag  against  the  sky 

Uncaptured  still. 


in 


To  Anne  Knish 

Madam,  you  intrigue  me! 

I  have  come  this  far 

Cautiously  sneezing 

Along  the  dusty  highroad  of  convention, 

But  now  it  leads  no  farther  toward  you. 

Today 

I  have  reached  the  cross  roads  — 
A  weather-beaten  sign-board 
Blazons  undecipherable  wisdom 
Of  which  the  arrow-heads,  even, 
Have  been  effaced. 

Eastward,  it  leads  through  cultivated  fields 

Of  intellectual  fodder, 

Where  well-fed  cattle,  herding  together, 

Browse  content : 

Are  you  of  these? 

Westward,  is  a  lane,  hedge-bordered, 
Shady,  and  of  gentle  indirection, 
In  May,  a  bower  of  sentimental  bloom, 
But  this  November  weather 
112 


Betrays  its  destiny,  the  poultry  yard 
Where  geese  foregather. 

And  there  ahead,  the  ancient,  swampy  way 
Modernized  by  a  feeble  plank  or  two : 
But  the  morass  of  passion  lures  me  not ! 
I  see  a  vision  of  two  plunging  feet, 
Discreetly  shod,  yet  struggling  in  vain  — 
Slime 

Creeps  ankle-high,  knee-high,  thigh-high, 
Till  all  is  swallowed  save  a  brave  silk  hat 
Floating  alone,  a  symbol  of  the  creed 
I  perished  shedding. 

Yet  'somewhere  you 

Intelligent  of  my  distress 

Smile,  undisturbed  — 

I  have  no  pedlar's  license  to  submit, 

No  wares  to  cry,  nor  any  gift  to  bring  — 

I  do  not  know 

Anything  new  — 

In  truth,  then,  what  have  I  to  do  with  you  ? 

Yet,  madam,  you  intrigue  me! 


Lolita 

How  curious  to  find  in  you,  Lolita, 

The  geisha 

Who  sits  and  strums  in  the  immortal 

Attitude  of  submission. 

There  is  a  ledger  in  place  of  her  soul ! 

Your  shoulders  sang 

For  admiration, 

Your  hair  wept  for  kisses, 

Your  voice  curved  softly,  a  caress  — 

You  came  among  us  as  a  suppliant, 

What  had  we  you  desired? 

Bringing  to  market  stolen  goods, 
Holding  to  view  used  charms, 
Behold  a  hawker's  spirit ! 

Eagles  perch  proudly 

In  isolation, 

They  swoop  to  seize  a  living  prey  — 

Crows  hover  to  feed, 

Waiting  with  patience  till  the  soul  is  fled 

Leaving  a  helpless  body  —  carrion  — 

(Vile  thoughts  obsess  me!) 

What  did  you  want,  Lolita  ? 
114 


Spectrum  of  Mrs.  Q. 

Fear  not,  beautiful  lady, 

That  I  shall  ravish  you! 

Your  arms  are  languorous  lilies  — 

There  is  not  a  thorn 

In  all  your  slender  greenness, 

And  you  are  sweet  to  madden  buzzing  bees ! 

Fear  not,  beautiful  lady, 
A  hard,  black  cricket 
Inspects  you. 


Epitaph 

Courage  is  a  sword, 
Honour,  but  a  shield 
Here  lies  a  turtle. 


116 


A  Sixpence 

OBVERSE 

If  I  loved  you, 
You  would  rear 
Eight  healthy  children 
To  our  love, 
(Forgetting  me) 
And  be  happy. 


REVERSE 

But  I  do  not  love  you, 
So  you  will  write 
Eight  hundred  poems 
To  our  love, 
(Forgetting  me) 
And  be  happy ! 


117 


Three  Spectra 

Of  Mrs.  X. 
You  — 

Too  well  fed  for  rebellion, 
Too  lazy  for  self-respect,  too  timid  for  murder, 
Disgracefully  steal  the  trade-mark  of  the  fairy-tale 
"And  they  lived  together  happily 
Ever  after!  " 

Of  Mrs.  Z. 

Madam,  you  are  ever  retreating, 

But  are  never 

Gone  — 

Some  day  I  shall  pursue  you 

Hoping  to  see  you 

Vanish. 

Of  Mrs.  Andsoforth. 
Old  ladies,  bless  their  hearts, 
Are  contented  as  house-flies 
Dozing  against  the  wall. 
But  you, 

Imprisoned  in  the  forties, 
Delirious,  frenzied,  helpless, 
Are  a  fly,  drowning  in  a  cocktail ! 
118 


Two  Commentaries 

I.    TO   AN   ACTOR 

You  are  a  gilded  card-case 

Which  I  took  for  a  purse. 

Your  spirit's  coin  was  squandered  long  ago, 

And  in  its  place 

Are  white  cards,  all  alike, 

Bearing  a  word, 

A  name, 

Connoting  nothing. 


2.    PHILOSOPHER  TO   ARTIST 

You  are  a  raisin,  but  I  am  a  nut ! 

What  meat  there  is  to  you 

Can  be  seen  at  a  glance  — 

(Seeds,  when  they  exist,  are  bitter) 

My  calm,  round  glossiness, 

(For  I  am  sound  and  free 

From  wormy  restlessness  of  spirit) 

Defies  your  casual  inspection. 

It  takes  sharp  teeth 
And  some  determination 
To  taste  my  kernel ! 
119 


A  Womanly  Woman 

You  sit,  a  snug,  warm  kitten 
Blinking  through  the  window 
At  a  storm-haunted  world  — 

Sleet  wind  caterwauls 

Through  icy  trees, 

Which  clack  their  hands  at  you 

Tauntingly. 

Why  should  you  leave 

Radiator  and  rubber-plant? 

Do  people  stand  at  attention  to  mourn  a  hero 

When  they  behold 

A  frozen  kitten 

In  a  gutter? 


120 


Lolita  Now  Is  Old 

Lolita  now  is  old, 

She  sits  in  the  park,  watching  the  young  men  pass 

And  huddles  her  shawl  against  the  cold. 

One  night  last  summer  when  the  moon  was  red, 

Lolita,  hearing  an  old  song  sung 

And  amorous  laughter  down  the  street 

Left  her  bed  — 

Lolita  thought  she  was  young. 

With  ancient  finery  on  her  back, 

A  lace  mantilla  hiding  her  grey  head, 

She  crept  into  the  warm  and  alien  night. 

Her  trembling  knees  remembered  the  languid  pace 

Of  beauty  on  adventure  bent  —  her  fan 

Waved  challenges  with  unforgotten  grace. 

Cunningly  she  played  her  part 

For  to  her  peering  age 

Love  was  a  well-remembered  art. 

Footsteps  followed  her  —  footsteps  drew  near! 
She  dropped  a  rose  —  hush,  he  is  here ! 
There  came  hard  arms  and  a  panting  kiss  — 
121 


He  felt  the  fraud  of  those  withered  lips, 
He  cursed  and  spat — "  Was  it  for  this, 
You  came,  old  woman,  to  the  park?  " 
Lolita  gathered  skirts  and  fled 
Through  the  dim  dark. 

Lolita  huddles  her  shawl  against  the  cold, 
She  sits  and  mumbles  by  the  fire.     In  truth 
Lolita  knows  she  is  old. 


122 


The  Shining  Bird 

A  bird  is  three  things: 

Feathers,  flight  and  song, 

And  feathers  are  the  least  of  these. 

At  last  I  hold  her  in  my  hands 

The  shining  bird  whose  flight  along 

The  perilous  rim  of  trees 

Has  made  my  days  adventurous,  my  spirit  strong. 

And  now  her  wings 

Are  still  —  her  vivid  song 

But  ceaseless  twitterings. 

Her  words  are  feathers,  falling 
Lightly,  relentlessly,  and  without  rest, 
Revealing  to  my  face 
Her  pinched  and  starveling  breast 
Like  poultry,  dead  and  unashamed 
And  naked  in  the  market  place. 

A  shattered  flash  of  wings, 

A  broken  song} 

Echo  and  shine  along  the  rim  of  trees. 


123 


The  King  Sends  Three  Cats  to  Guinevere 

Queen  Guinevere, 

Three  sleek  and  silent  cats 

Bring  you  gifts  from  me. 

The  first  is  a  grey  one, 

(I  wanted  a  white  one, 

I  could  not  find  one  snowy  white  enough, 

Queen  Guinevere,) 

He  brings  you  purple  grapes. 

The  second  is  a  grey  one, 

(I  wanted  a  isleek  one, 

Where  could  I  find  one  sleek  enough, 

Queen  Guinevere  ?) 

He  brings  you  a  red  apple. 

The  third  one,  too,  is  grey. 

(I  wanted  a  black  one, 

Not  Hate  itself  could  find  one  black  enough, 

Queen  Guinevere,) 

He  brings  you  poison  toadstools. 


124 


I  send  you  three  grey  cats  with  gifts  — 
(For  uniformity  of  metaphor, 


Since  Bacchus,  Satan,  and  the  Hangman 

Are  not  contemporaneous  in  my  mythology) 

I  send  you  three  grey  cats  with  gifts, 

Queen  Guinevere, 

To  warn  you,  sleekly,  silently 

To  pay  the  forfeit. 


125 


Ode  in  the  New  Mode 

Your  face 

Was  a  temple 

From  which  your  soul 

Came  to  me  beneath  arched  brows: 

And  my  soul  knelt  at  your  feet. 

Then 

Inadvertently 

I  saw  your  leg 

Curved  and  turned  like  a  bird-song, 

Dying  into  esctatic  silence  at  the  garter  .  .  . 

Wretched 

Women  I 

When  you  are  wholly  lovely 

Man  cannot  forget  either  of  his  two  afflictions, 

Soul,  or  body! 


126 


Night 

I  opened  the  door 
And  night  stared  at  me  like  a  fool, 
Heavy  dull  night,  clouded  and  safe  — 
I  turned  again  toward  the  uncertainties 
Of  life  withindoors. 

Once  night  was  a  lion, 
No,  years  ago,  night  was  a  python 
Weaving  designs  against  space 
With  undulations  of  his  being  — 
Night  was  a  siren  once. 

O  sodden,  middle-aged  night! 


THE    END 


127 


Acknowledgments  are  due  to  Poetry,  a  Magazine 
of  Verse,  Others,  Reedy' s  Mirror,  Contemporary 
Verse,  The  Midland,  The  Little  Review,  The  Lyric, 
The  Masses,  etc.,  by  whose  courtesy  certain  of  these 
poems  have  been  reprinted. 


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EC  10  1933 


JUL    8    1935 

t*t-n  4  —  A   4Q7Q    m  a  — 

JAM  g  4  13       NQV2g  1986 


LD  21-100m-7/33 


GENERAL  UBRARY-U.C.  BERKELEY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFPJWIA  UBRARY 


